


(It's a Party) Underground

by decotex



Category: Daredevil (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Gen, Post-Avengers: Age of Ultron (Movie), Shit's going down, minimal spoilers though i promise
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-04
Updated: 2015-10-10
Packaged: 2018-03-28 22:36:38
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 7,950
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3872302
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/decotex/pseuds/decotex
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Everyone's trying to kill the man in the mask. Fortunately for him, a certain team of avenging superheroes has experience with that sort of thing. He might even make a friend. </p><p>Feat. sassy sidekick duo Foggy and Karen, lots of alcohol, a technology convention, an exasperated James Wesley, and flirty gay men.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_“The masked man is currently wanted for questioning in conjunction with the recent explosions around the city as well as the attacks on the police. As of right now, this man should be considered armed, dangerous, and-”_

“Okay, I call bullshit.”

“Foggy! Call bullshit later. I’m watching this.”

“He’s one guy, Karen. How could he have kidnapped a police officer, killed three people, and blown up half the city _at the same time_? Like I get it, he’s strong, but he’s not, like, Jesus, or, or, Obama.”

“Like-You have strange ideas about supervillains.”

“It’s always the quiet ones, Karen.”

“Always-”

“Shh, I’m watching.”

Karen would have shoved him roughly if he weren’t in a hospital bed, bleeding. Instead she just shoved him a regular amount.

“Ow! Karen, that’s no way to treat an American hero.”

_“-was a statement from our chief of the police, regarding the mysterious man in the mask. Again, anyone who has seen or heard anything about this man should call the number on the screen, toll free.”_

Foggy looked at her. “Should we call?”

“And say what? ‘This man saved my life. Go fuck him up.”

“Well, maybe that was a fluke. Maybe you weren’t his type. Maybe you _were_ his type. I don’t know. It wouldn’t hurt to call, though.”

“Call . . . the police. Right.” She frowned.

“Do we not want to help the police? Are we anti-police now?”

“I don’t know, Foggy,” she said, rubbing her forehead. “I think we’re missing something. Matt would know. I just want to talk to Matt.”

They both turned to look at her phone, as if they could make it ring through sheer force of will.

_“Who is this masked stranger? What are his motives? And most urgently, where is he now?”_

\---

Matt Murdock threw back a martini.

He should probably be somewhere else, punching someone or strategically getting punched, but the night had gotten away from him and he needed to evaluate his options so here he was instead, at the gay bar across the street from his flat.

“Another one, mate?”

“No, thanks.”

“You been fighting?”

Matt paused. He’d sat in the back, but even so he could probably make it out the door if he ran, providing the bartender hadn’t called the police, providing he _wasn’t_ the police-

“It’s the voice. Hoarse. People have arguments, they come here and sit in this seat and brood. Don’t worry, you don’t have to talk about it.”

The bartender’s heartbeat checked out. Even so, Matt made a conscious effort to sit up straighter and stop rubbing his bruises.

“Less of an argument, more of a frank exchange of ideas. It’s been a rough night.”

“Listen, if he doesn’t treat you right then you dump his ass and find someone who will. You’re worth it, and don’t you ever forget that.”

“I-Thanks man, that means a lot.”

Matt sat and thought. Officially, the man in the mask was wanted by the police for questioning. Unofficially, everyone was out to kill him. This includes the police, several mobs (both of the gangster and angry pitchfork variety), and probably other parties that he would have the pleasure of meeting later. All in all, a certain masked vigilante was looking a bit screwed. The fact that he had the moral high ground didn’t make him feel much better.

“From the man by the pool table.” The bartender placed a cocktail glass in front of him. “Want me to describe him? Blonde, ripped, kind of a partial beard sort of thing-”

“It’s fine. Tell him thanks.”

“Sure. I’m just saying, you could do worse.”

“I undoubtedly will.”

Matt swirled the glass, deep in thought. That was it then; the man in the mask couldn’t show his face without being shot from three different directions. So he wouldn’t. The man in the mask would lay low.

But Matt Murdock, he had work to do.

He left a bill on the counter and stalked off into the night.

\---

“Mr. Stark, Steve Rogers is on the line.”

“God help me.”

Tony extracted his hands from the belly of a Ferrari Dino 246 GT and walked over to his desk. He had a feeling this was going to be a sit-down sort of conversation.

“Patch him through.”

Things had been awkward since the whole Ultron business. The team hadn’t been avoiding each other, per say, but they hadn’t exactly been invited to each other’s dinner parties either. Certain unnamed Avengers of the patriotic and military persuasion had thrown themselves into the new Avengers training program. Tony, who was neither, had taken a step back from Avenging to work on personal projects, with the stipulation that said projects were completely unrelated to sentient robots (mostly true).

“Tony.” Steve’s voice echoed through his speakers, and Tony seriously reconsidered his decision to install surround sound for calls. Good on paper, creepy in practice.

“Captain. How are the recruits?”

“They’re coming along well. Most of them still don’t know the extent of their powers. Could really use your help on that front.”

“All in good time, my friend,” Tony said, pointedly not mentioning the hair and skin samples currently going through his analysis machines. “So what’s up?”

“I heard you’re speaking at the International Technology Summit in New York.”

“Yeah.” He put his feet up on the table. “One of the drawbacks of being wildly successful and famous. Everyone wants a piece.”

“New York’s been . . . eventful lately. You been following the news?”

“I have. You’re not going to tell me not to go, are you? Because sure, New York’s been crime-ridden lately, but when is it not? You can't move to a place called 'Hell's Kitchen' and then get angry when you can't leave your back door unlocked.”

“No, actually. I just wanted to let you know that I’m available, if anything comes up. California’s your coast, New York is mine. And besides, these kids are looking for a test run.”

It was a nice offer, he had to admit, and one that he hadn’t been expecting. “Thanks, Cap, but I’m sure I’ll be fine. Murderers, vigilantes, industrial espionage-must be Tuesday.”

“Okay, Tony. And, just to reiterate, you’re always welcome at the new training-”

“Any word on Banner?”

The line was silent, which was as much admission of no news as any.

“I’ll keep you posted,” Steve said, finally.

“You do that.”

There was a soft beep as the line went dead, and Tony leaned back in his chair. As usual, it was going to be a long week.

“Compile all footage, photographs, and information on Hell’s Kitchen’s recent problems. I want a comprehensive document by the time my plane leaves.”

He wasn’t planning to do anything heroic. Honestly though, he rarely did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Absolutely no idea where this is going but it's going to be quite a ride. I plan to feature as many Avengers/Daredevil characters as is reasonable, so stay tuned for some fan servicing-dialogue with your favorite minor character. Possibly slash if enough people complain. 
> 
> Also, I'm probably going to do some other separate post-Ultron thing? Eventually??? Who knows? Not me.


	2. Chapter 2

“That should hold as long as you don’t do anything stupid,” said Claire, stepping back to survey her work.

Matt’s left arm and torso were heavily bandaged, and various cuts had been cleaned and stitched. He stood up and flexed his arm experimentally, and then sat back down again very quickly.

“So what you’re saying is, that won’t hold.” He hated to do this-make her leave the hospital and drive across the city to patch him up, especially when she sounded so tired already. Unfortunately, the man in the mask was perilously low on options.

“I don’t suppose there’s any point in asking you to take it easy for a few days.”

“None at all.”

They paused, as the sound of sirens grew closer, passed, and faded into the distance. After a moment, Claire sat down on the couch next to him and, very delicately, draped his good arm around her shoulders.

“The hospital then, at least? No one would ask questions, you know. A blind guy comes in all torn up the night of several violent explosions and the staff wouldn’t look twice, except maybe to shower you in flowers and pain medication.”

“Thanks Claire, but I can’t. It won’t be long before someone makes a connection between me and the masked guy. I have until then to, to, clear my name or something.”

“Wow. Great plan.”

“It’s a work in progress.”

She stood up and began collecting her equipment. “I’ve got to get back to the hospital. Told them my grandma fell down the stairs.”

Matt laughed and then coughed immediately, rubbing the bandages on his chest.

She hesitated at the door. “Do you know . . . I mean, you’ve got something, right? You’re not just going to go around hitting people?”

“Ye of little faith. Yes, Claire. I promise you. I'm going to work this out.”

“You’d better."

“Hey, also," he said, rubbing his arm. "Would you mind delivering a message?”

\---

“Think we should check the morgue?”

“He’s not _dead_ Karen. At the absolute worst, mortally wounded.”

“Foggy-”

“Kidding. Maybe just a little maimed. Seriously though, I bet he’s fine.”

“But maybe he was in the area, and one of the buildings exploded and in the rush he-”

“Karen, you don’t know him like I do. If a building exploded near Matt Murdock he’d not only survive but then reassemble the building so that he could spitefully blow it up again. If a concrete slab broke off a sixteenth story wall and plummeted towards Matt Murdock, he’d just point at it with his cane in that really passive-aggressive way that he does and it would be like, ‘Oh. Sorry, I thought you were someone else.’ Trust me, that guy might not look it but he’s nails.”

“I hope you’re right,” she sniffed.

“Of course I’m right,” said Foggy, aware that he was trying to convince himself as much as Karen. The sun had already solidly risen and had heralded, along with a tray of corn pops, no news.

There was a knock at the door. Karen and Foggy looked at each other.

“ . . . Yeah?” called Foggy.

A nurse opened the door. “Foggy Nelson and Karen Page?”

“Present.”

She stepped inside the closed the door behind her carefully. “Matt Murdock says hi.”

Karen jumped up, and Foggy lurched forward like he intended to stand but then remembered about being tethered to a hospital bed and settled for looking very, very excited.

“Is he okay?”

“Sure. Said to tell you that his phone wasn’t working, but he saw your messages and wants to let you know he’s alright.”

“Well, that’s a relief,” said Foggy, leaning back in his bed. “Did he say anything about visiting his best friends in the hospital?”

“No, unfortunately. He mentioned he was very busy, though. Something about a new case.”

“New case? Damn, that guy works fast.”

“Maybe it has something to do with the attacks.”

“Yeah,” said the nurse, a little ominously in Foggy’s opinion. “Maybe.”

\---

Tony Stark considered himself lucky to be among the few people in the world who, when asked whether they liked flying, would have to answer, “With or without a plane?”

Unfortunately this was a plane-positive trip, courtesy of the massive amount of Stark Industries technology that was accompanying him to the conference, so Tony was tired and hungry by the time he finally arrived in Manhattan.

“Can I get a chicken burrito? Plane food is the work of the devil.”

“Actually I’m just a, uh, bellhop. I can’t order room service,” said the bellhop, standing next to the pile of newly unloaded luggage and shifting his feet nervously. “But I have Taco Bell on speed dial, if you want.”

Tony shot him double finger guns. “Good man. Keep it under fifteen minutes and you can keep the change.”

The bellhop took off running down the hall, clearly fueled by fantasies about the kind of bills Tony paid with.

Shutting the hotel room door behind him, Tony pulled out his phone and sat on the bed. After a moment, he got up again and began pacing.

It was such a small detail, lost in the difference between two pixels of grainy security camera footage.

He hadn’t planned to get involved. He still didn’t, really. Pick your battles, they say, and Tony usually has his hands full with the battles that pick him.

But genius is fickle and uncontrollable even by its owner and sometimes, rather than planning the speech it has to give in seven-Tony checked the bedside alarm clock-six hours, concentrates instead on the current events presentation prepared for him by his temporary AI.

He still stood by what he said to Steve. Hell’s Kitchen had, was, and probably always would be a petri dish for crime. Something about the connections, though; there was something about the timing, the involved parties, the police.

Tony's AI had dug up a good amount of footage featuring the mysterious man in a mask, and he had watched all of it on the plane. He sat and thought for a while, and then he had gone back and watched them again. Then he sharpened the videos, handpicked the most relevant frames, zoomed in, and displayed them side by side with all of the police-issued photographs.

Even sharpened, none of the images were clear enough to be considered anything more than “extremely grainy” or possibly “very blurry.” All of the footage had been recorded by second-rate security cameras in dark alleyways or behind buildings.

But he could have _sworn,_ he was almost sure-he pulled out his phone and swiped through the images again.

The mask didn’t have eyeholes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yooooo I'm kind of managing an every other day publishing pattern! I've been sick these past few days so I've pretty much done nothing but write. Pretty happy with the direction this weird little crossover is going, though. I have big plans.


	3. Chapter 3

Wesley didn’t even bother to knock anymore.

They’d reached a point where Wesley would wait at the door of Fisk’s apartment (the location of which was only known to Fisk and himself), politely pretending that he didn’t have keys to both Fisk’s house and car, at nine every morning exactly and one day Fisk had said, “You know, just let yourself in next time.”

So he did.

Fisk’s apartment had gotten progressively more fashionable since Vanessa entered his life. It had never been messy, but he hadn’t been one to embellish beyond function.

Wesley paused in the kitchen to admire the new set of crystal platters lying half unpacked on the counter.

_Fisk hosting a dinner party. Imagine._

Vanessa had infused life into the apartment, much like she’d infused life into-well, needless to say, Wesley approved.

He did knock on the bedroom door. He didn’t used to, but once Vanessa had happened, he’d deemed it tactical to avoid any potential awkwardness.

“Urf. Wesley?” came the cracked voice from inside the room.

“Sir.”

“Sorry, must have slept in. Give me a few minutes.”

“I’ll wait in the living room.”

Leaving his briefcase on the couch, Wesley went to the kitchen to brew coffee. This wasn’t part of their usual routine-Fisk liked to make his own coffee, something about finding comfort in routine-but it would save time, and anyway, Wesley knew how he took it.

“I’m not late for anything, am I?” Wearing a robe and slippers, Fisk sat down on the opposite side of the counter.

“No. Your first appointment is at eleven, although we should probably get there at least ten minutes early. Coffee?”

Fisk blinked sleepily at the cup placed in front of him. “Thanks. Vanessa and I ate at the Lincoln last night, and then we stayed up late-what are you doing?”

Wesley froze, egg hovering above a hot pan. He’d taken off his jacket and rolled up his sleeves and although he wasn’t wearing an apron, it was probably the closest he would ever come to implying one. “Making breakfast? Sir. ”

Being the personal assistant to a crime lord wasn’t all guns and cash and bribery. Sometimes you had to take the hit to your dignity and pick up a spatula.

“You don’t have to do that Wesley. I’ll-we can stop somewhere, on the way-”

“We have time now. You can read the briefing for the meeting, if you have a moment.” Wesley nodded towards the manilla file on the counter.

Besides, he liked cooking.

“Paper? How . . . archaic.” Fisk opened the file. “And ironic. Remind me again why I’m attending an technology conference today.”

“Today and tomorrow. There’s going to be a significant political presence, as well as important figures in the tech world. It will be beneficial to establish yourself as a modern, future-forward businessman.”

“I don’t doubt it’ll be beneficial. It just seems like we have, ah, bigger issues, currently.”

“They’re being dealt with, sir,” Wesley said darkly, the effect of which was somewhat ruined as he flipped an omelet.

“If you say so. Keep me updated. I want to know the minute anything goes wrong.”

“Of course.”

Wesley plated the omelet, holding back a theatrical flourish, and slid the plate in front of Fisk.

“You’re good at that.”

“I may have been a waiter, at some point.”

“A waiter?” Fisk stared into his plate thoughtfully. “I bet you were a good waiter.”

“I was.”

\---

Tony picked up on the first ring.

“What’s up, Pepper?”

“Tony? I’m surprised you’re awake.”

“It’s nine a.m. on the east coast, Pepper.”

“Exactly. Oh god, you stayed up all night, didn’t you?”

“You know me too well. But I promise, it wasn’t a bar or anything. I was . . .” He stared at the screen in front of him, displaying various articles about organized crime in Hell’s Kitchen. “. . . working on something. Pepper, the more research I do the more this town looks like a massive, mob-owned, money-laundering front. It’s a goddamn conspiracy, I swear to god. I know I’m playing amateur detective here but evidently so are the actual police investigators.”

“You’re still doing the speech, right? You know you’re opening the conference. Televised.”

“I know. By the way, new rule; nothing scheduled before noon. From this point on, I am strictly available some afternoons, preferably nights. Also, I want a rider. Two Turkish masseuses and a cup of Vicodin.”

“It’s your own fault, you know. You could have picked a later time.”

“Yeah, but come on, Pepper. I’m a mess. You know that.”

“I do. Anyway I just wanted to let you know that if you haven’t planned your speech yet-”

“It’s . . . being conceptualized, in a very abstract way, mentally.”

“-I’ve emailed you some notes. Bullet-point list with some topics, so you can still improvise.”

“That’s very thoughtful of you, Pepper. Had some extra time on your hands? Running Stark Industries not challenging enough for you?”

“Old habits die hard, I guess.”

Tony smiled. “Thanks Pep, really. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

“I’d give you a week.”

“A week? Ten days, surely.”

“Wanna bet?”

“No.”

She laughed. “I’ve got to go, Tony, but-”

“Yeah, I should probably look over those notes.” He rubbed his forehead. “Shit. This was a bad decision. I’m dying here. Five days max.”

“I’m sure you’ll do fine.”

“If I survive that long. See you later.”

“Bye, Tony.”

He hung up and sighed.

Tony considered, for a moment, calling Steve-if only to legitimize what he was about to do. Loathe as he was to admit it, there was something very morally validating about Steve Rogers’ approval. It was like being sponsored by a minor saint.

“Excuse me?” called a tentative voice from outside the hotel room door.

Tony looked hard at the articles one last time before shutting the laptop. “Yeah. Taco Bell, that you?”

“Err . . . yes sir. You car’s here, sir. For the event. Sir.”

“Five minutes.”

“Okay sir, I’ll wait.”

“I’ll be fine on my own, thanks.”

“I . . . okay, I guess,” came the reply from the other side of the door, after what was clearly a very brief internal struggle.

Tony walked to the bathroom and stood in front of the mirror. He looked . . . well, he’s looked worse on more sleep, so he considered it a win.

He checked his pockets. Wallet, check. Starkphone, check. Iron Man suit coded bracelets, check. He looked down.

Pants, check.

Tony stared his reflection in the eye and told himself, very sternly, that he was definitely not acting out of curiosity and disregard for personal safety and that in some convoluted way this would probably end up helping someone.

There was a tentative knock at his door.

“Uh, sir? Sorry but . . . my manager said I have to escort you downstairs. Also the car’s waiting out front and the traffic is _really_ piling up . . .”

Tony turned away from the mirror. Time to go.

He hadn’t been lying about working on a speech.

\---

“Channel four.”

“What? Claire, I-”

_“Channel four.”_

There was a soft beep as the line went dead.

Matt tossed his phone onto the bed, ran to his living room, vaulted over the couch, fell (he’d forgotten about those stitches), dragged himself up, and grabbed the remote from the coffee table.

“-no stranger to vigilante justice. So I guess this is kind of an appeal slash threat. Interpret it how you’d like. Because I don’t know who you are, yet, but I do know you. I’ve seen every frame of footage you’ve allowed yourself to be caught on. I’ve read every report from everyone who’s ever claimed to see you. I know how you fight. I’ve tracked your locations. I know where you’ve been.”

It took him a moment. Matt was at a disadvantage because he couldn’t actually see what was on the television, but the voice was so iconic that he would have recognized it even without his heightened senses.

“I know that you think you’re doing the right thing. I know that half of the reports are false, and I have a pretty good idea which half. I know that the media hasn’t been your friend, so you’re staying out of it. I know that you don’t drive.”

And that was the moment Matt froze.

Tony paused too, like he knew he’d just delivered the trump card.

“I know that it scares you, how much you enjoy it. I know you hide your identity because you don't want to compromise your private life. And, from one man in a mask to another, I know that you're _dying_ to be found out."

Reporters were yelling now. Tony ignored them.

“I know you. I can find you. Save me the trouble.”

There was a rustle of paper.

" . . . Oh, also; _the Fifth International Technology Summit would like to welcome Boy Scout Troop 394. They will be selling handmade terrariums-_ terrariums. That sounds nice. Uh, _handmade terrariums in front of Exhibition Hall C from twelve to four. They thank you in advance for your support."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Team Wesley. Or as he would say, Team Wezzley.


	4. Chapter 4

The Fifth International Technology Summit Opening Night Gala was shaping up to be a shameless display of wealth and intelligence, without even the pretense of a charitable cause.

Tony loved it.

It was one of the few places he could talk shop, especially since exeunt Banner. Anywhere you could yell, “Hey, MIT!” and have half the room turn around was Tony’s kind of place.

Currently, he was seated at a table near the front of the room (celebrity privilege still holding strong, even if he’d gone slightly off book with his speech earlier) surrounded by a crowd of engineers.

“But doesn’t the temperature of the repulsors warp the metal and compromise their accuracy?”

“Not if you use tempered silicon. They do tend to get a bit flighty after a while, but the suits rarely last long enough to not have needed replacement parts by then anyway.”

“What about the thrusters? The constant use-”  
“Yeah, that was a problem. In the beginning the heat would meld the joints together after half an hour or so. I’ve actually developed a variable cooling system-”

“If we could all settle down for a moment,” someone on stage said into a microphone. “I’d like to begin by welcoming this year’s chair . . .”

Tony, who had never “settled down” in his life, stood up. He looked across the room and spotted sliding glass doors. “Want a demonstration?” Without waiting for an answer he picked up his briefcase and headed towards the patio doors.

The group of listeners looked at each other for a moment, and then surged after him.

“Oh god, yes,” someone murmured.

\--

“Two mojitos, please.”

“‘Right up, sir.”

Wesley leaned against the bar. On the stage at the far side of the room, someone was giving a very boring speech.

“Girlfriend?”

He turned. A slim woman sat alone a few bar stools down. She was wearing a printed cocktail dress and was very, very, pretty.

Wesley made a conscious effort to look especially unimpressed.

“Boss’s girlfriend, actually.”

“Surely they can get their own drinks.”

“I’m sure they can.”

The crowd applauded, and the current speaker handed the microphone to someone else.

“Business, tech, or politics?”

“Excuse me?”

“Your industry, I meant.”

“Business, soon to be politics.”

She smiled. “Strange, how often those two go hand in hand these days.”

“An unfortunate necessity.”

The bartender placed two glasses in front of him. “Sir.”

“Thanks.” Wesley picked them up and looked at her briefly. If she was waiting for an invitation, she was going to be disappointed.

Instead, she smiled again and gestured at him with her martini. “Enjoy the party.”

Wesley nodded politely and walked back towards the tables. Rather than heading directly to Fisk, he walked along the back of the room, eyeing the crowd. He touched his ear.

“Report.”

_“Negative. He’s not at his table.”_

“Keep looking. Check any nearby halls. He might be with a girl.”

_“Will do, sir.”_

\---

Matt would have really preferred to be invited. Unfortunately, as was the growing trend in his life, he was forced to take the less legal route.

As he scaled the decorative concrete wall, Matt thought about how nice it must be to live a life that did not involve weekly breaking and entering.

He wasn’t even wearing a mask this time, which made him especially uncomfortable.

“It’s a bluff,” Claire had said. “He can’t know who you are.”

“Of course it’s a bluff but Claire, he knows I’m blind. It’s enough.”

“At least leave the mask, then. I’d rather you be a highly suspicious blind guy than out yourself as the right highly suspicious blind guy.”

So here he was, unarmed, sneaking into a nerd convention to confront Iron Man. It wasn’t his best plan, he admitted to himself, as he used the drainpipe to jump onto the roof.

“Hey!”

Matt turned. There was movement across the roof. It sounded a lot like security guards, which wouldn’t normally be an issue. What worried him was that the things they were carrying sounded a lot like guns.

Yeah, definitely not his best plan.

\---

“So you just kind of clench your hand, and then . . .”

The engineers cheered as Tony fired his repulsor into the sky.

“Like that? Got it?”

“Can I try?” asked one of the braver viewers.

“Yeah. Hang on. It’s a bit . . . heavy . . .” Tony slipped the glove off his hand, carefully so as not to snag his cufflinks, and handed it over.

“Won’t somebody get mad?” said someone tentatively. “I mean, the hotel probably has some policy against firing weapons in their courtyard.”

“Nah, we’ll be fine. Just, uh, don’t hit any of the buildings. Or people.”

The guy wearing the repulsor looked at him, and then at his hand. “Right. Uh, okay.” He angled upwards, supporting the glove with his other hand.

“Watch out for that plane!”

“What?”

“Just kidding.”

“Oh.”

“Seriously though, watch out for planes. That would be bad.”

“Yeah.”

“Us, also. Don’t hit any of us.”

He lowered his hand. “Are you sure we should, I mean-”

“Yeah, it’s fine. Don’t worry about it.” 

“Right.” He lifted his arm again. “So how do I fire? Just kind of clench, like this-”

He took a step back as repulsor fired into the sky. The bolt arched up and then disappeared into the clouds.

“That was . . .” He stared reverently at his hand. “ . . . so . . . cool.”

Tony slapped him on the back. “See? Now you can say that for one second, you were basically Iron Man.”

“I want to try!”

“Wait, give it here!”

“Come on Sam, my turn.”

Over the noise of their arguing, something loud cracked-something that sounded remarkably like a gunshot. 

Tony stopped and scanned the roof. It could have been anything. This was Hell’s Kitchen, after all. He doubted it was a stranger to gunshots.

And then quickly, a blur. He wouldn’t have seen it if he hadn’t been looking for it, but it was enough.

“Sorry guys, gotta go.” He pressed a button on his bracelet and someone gasped, as the propulsor they were holding disassembled and fell to the ground in parts.

“Oh my god, did I-”

“No, give it a moment.”

The parts slid across the ground into the open briefcase, which Tony kicked shut and picked up.

“Sorry, I’ve got to do something," he said, walking quickly back towards a hotel entrance. "Be back, uh, possibly. Don’t have too much fun without me.”

“Where are you going?” someone called after him.

“Gotta find somebody.”

He turned the corner and broke into a run.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yo, that took a while. 
> 
> On an unrelated note, how good was Mad Max?


	5. Chapter 5

Despite being blind, Matt Murdock was unusually adept at both freerunning and dodging bullets.

Doing them at the same time was pushing it.

“Hey! Stop!” someone yelled.

Matt rolled his eyes.

He leaped over the corner of a small courtyard, ducking as he felt the air shift to propel a bullet over his head.

There were five of them now, chasing him across the roof of the Fort Prestige Hotel. His plan, which was to sneak in and pretend to be a guest, had been largely thrown to the wind. He was now considering a much simpler, more immediate plan, which could be relayed in two parts: 1. _Get off the roof_ , and 2. _Don’t get shot,_ with the addendum 2.5. _Do not, under any circumstance, let them see your face._

If only he could get close. Matt excelled at hand-to-hand, melee, anything that allowed him to use his boxing skills. Unfortunately, you can’t punch a bullet.

They were falling behind, now. Matt congratulated himself on his superior athleticism, and then noticed there was a distinct lack of roof ahead.

\---

“We’ve got him,” the guard said proudly into his mouthpiece, watching the figure from across the roof. “He’s near the edge. If he turns left we can flank him at the corner. We’ve also got two men in into the stairwell to the right.  There is no possible way for him to escape.”

The Head of Security grunted. “According to you.” She sounded bitter, but whether that was from a hectic night or years of working security in Hell’s Kitchen it was impossible to tell.

“In fact,” the guard continued, because he wanted to demonstrate his competence and it’s not like the guy could hear him, anyway. “The only possible way for him to get away would be if he jumps through the skylight. It leads to the fifth floor hallway and we don’t men there because it’s too close to the gala.”

“Fantastic.”

“Yeah, so we’ve got him. Definitely. He’ll turn right or left. Or jump. Haha. There’s no way he would think to do something crazy like dive through the skylight-”

\---

Matt dove through the skylight.

\---

“You’ve got to! It’s a _ball_.”

“I . . . I don’t think so. I mean, it would probably be best if I didn’t. If you would like to dance with someone else, though-”

“Oh, come on!” Vanessa turned to Wesley, who was watching his boss and her girlfriend from an appropriate distance. “Wesley, tell him.”

“Sir, I highly recommend you take her advice.”

Fisk frowned. “Not you too, Wesley.”

“With all due respect, sir, as in most cases Vanessa knows-Jesus!” Wesley jumped, as his earpiece suddenly exploded with noise.

“Are you alright?” Vanessa asked, immediately concerned.

“Yes, sorry. Excuse me.” He made brief eye contact with Fisk, who nodded, before turning to walk quickly through the crowd.

The number one rule these days, according to Fisk, was, “Keep Vanessa out of it.” Wesley was prepared to follow that order, even if he hadn’t yet discerned what “it” was yet.

He touched his earpiece as soon as he was outside. “What’s going on?”

“Sir!” The voice was enveloped by the sound of heavy footsteps and yelling. “We were checking the hallways, like you asked, and then someone, uh, fell through a skylight.”

Wesley frowned. “Stark?”

“We’re not sure. Couldn’t see his face, took off running. Looked pretty beat up, though. Wait, he turned a corner. I’ll- _OOF,_ ” he cut off, sounding very much like he’d just had the air knocked out of him.

Wesley rubbed his forehead as he listened to the sound of people fighting, which escalated into a lot of groaning and swearing and then slowly dropped into silence.

“Hello?” he tried after a moment, halfheartedly.

There was no reply.

He turned on his heel and power-walked back towards the gala.

Idiots. He was surrounded by idiots.

\---

Matt had been sure his day had reached its low point when he was being shot at and chased on a rooftop. As he dragged himself to the twelfth door in the hallway and rattled the handle, aware that he was leaving a blood trail, he reflected on the way that life is full of surprises and also on the way that glass feels when it’s shredding your back open.

He reached the last door and tried the handle, hoping that “it’s always in the last place you look” also applied to life-saving medical supplies in hotel rooms.

It didn’t.

Nothing for it then. He’d have to either try a different floor or try to leave the building. Neither was what Matt would consider a good plan, but desperate times and all. He decided to try the next floor down, since the lobby was undoubtedly full of guards and he wasn’t sure where the other exits were.

The door to the stairs was locked.

Good. Great.

Matt lurched to the elevator and jabbed the button, leaving a red, drippy thumbprint.

If he could just find an open supply closet, he could hide and call Claire. What could she do, though? Ask the front desk to politely release her friend, who, despite being covered in blood, was totally not the guy who had just destroyed property and assaulted several guards.

The elevator dinged and the doors slid open. Matt froze.

“Uh,” said Tony Stark. “Hi.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one was a blast to write. Really, REALLY looking forward to the next chapters. I feel like Wesley's permanently exasperated and it's fantastic.


	6. Chapter 6

“Fuck me!”

“Later.”

Tony Stark splashed the vodka onto Matt’s back once more for good measure ( _“Fucking Hell!”_ ) and then handed him the bottle. 

“Drink,” he instructed.

Matt frowned, to assert that this was an I’m-doing-this-because-I-want-to-and-not-because-you-told-me-to type of situation, took a very long swig, and then collapsed onto the plush ottoman. Vodka-diluted blood pooled at his feet. (Tony Stark would not be getting his deposit back for this hotel room.)

“Fucking Hell,” Matt repeated, grimacing.

“Hey, chin up,” said Tony, who was digging through a suitcase. “It could have been a lot worse.”

“How?”

“It could have been me.”

Walking back over, Tony held out a fat roll of gauze and gestured to Matt’s torso. “Want me to-”

“No,” said Matt, taking it.

Tony shrugged and sat on the bed. “Just trying to keep you guts inside your body, dude. But hey, whatever. They’re your guts.”

Arms raised, Matt awkwardly wrapped the gauze around his chest. He focused very carefully on this, in order to distract himself from the fact that he was panicking.

It didn’t happen often. Going blind in a traumatic childhood accident generally leaves you numb to most other high-stress situations. It’s what made him a good lawyer. On a good day, Matt could charge a room full of armed mercenaries without breaking a sweat.

This was not one of those days.

He hadn’t had the upper hand to start with, and that was before he was half-naked and bleeding inside Tony Stark’s hotel room-who, by the way, either already knew or had just unearthed his secret identity.

As had been the growing trend leading up to that moment, it had been a spur-of-the-moment, if-I-don’t-do-this-I’ll-probably-die decision. Matt was bleeding out all over the fifth floor hallway and needed a hiding place. Tony, as luck would have it, was staying in the fifth floor penthouse suite. He’d offered his room, no questions asked, and Matt had done a 2 second cost-benefit analysis (say yes or literally die) and agreed.

He reached the end of the gauze roll and shoved the remaining cloth under a strap.

So far, so good.

Tony, meanwhile, had pulled out his phone.

“Chill,” he said, before Matt could react. “Just trying to cover your ass.”

Someone picked up almost immediately.

“Hi, could you send my bellhop up? The one who was here earlier. Short, kinda nerdy-yeah, great. Thanks.”

Tony got up and headed towards the door. “Be right back. Don’t go through my stuff.”

Matt nodded.

Tony had left the door open, so Matt could hear the subsequent conversation that went on in the hallway while he was going through Tony’s stuff. It went like this;

_*elevator ding*_

“Ahhhhhhh!”

“Yeah, I know. It’s a lot of blood. I’m gonna-”

“Ahhhhhhh!”

“I know, I know. I’m right there with you, buddy. Are you hyperventilating? Please tell me you don’t have asthma. Alright, deep breaths.”

“Uhh . . . sir-”

“Call me Tony. You’ve earned it.”

“Right. Um, Tony, uhh . . .”

“Okay listen. I need you to do something for me. I’m here on special Avengers business, and right now the Avengers need you. See this mess? I need you to clean it up, completely. Like, spotless. And no one else, right? No one comes up here. No maids, no guests-I need it to be _you._ ”

“Um, it’s just, really a lot of blood, and are those _bodies-_ ”

“Why, it appears that they are. Hadn’t seen them, actually. Don’t worry about those. I’ll shove them in a closet or something. Just deal with the rest of it. Can you do that for me? And for the Avengers? And for the tip of a lifetime?”

There was a long pause.

“I mean, I guess I could stop the elevator, and then find some, uh, windex?”

“Great! Knew I could count on you. I’ll be in here. Tell me when you’re done.”

Tony reentered the room and shut the door behind him.

“Nice kid,” Matt commented.

“Right? How much do you think I should tip him?”

“I don’t know. Five hundred?”

“Five hundred? I was thinking more like college tuition. Possibly some dental work.”

“Therapy,” added Matt.

“Therapy. Good. Nothing wrong with therapy. If someone had put us in therapy, maybe we’d be throwing back mai tais downstairs right now instead of organizing viscera cleanup. I know I would be, anyway.”

Tony sat down on the bed again, across from Matt.

“So . . .”

“So.”

They sat.

Outside, people cheered. The gala was going well, apparently.

“Okay, I’ll be honest with you,” Tony said finally. “I didn’t have a contingency plan for this.”

“I didn’t even have a regular plan.”

“Right. So I’m thinking,” Tony began, “it’s storytime. Let’s start with the assumption that you’re the masked vigilante of Hell’s Kitchen and go from there.”

\---

“May I cut in?”

They stared at him. Couples danced desperately around them, the group standing awkwardly in the middle of the ballroom floor.

“Wesley . . .” Vanessa began.

“Excuse the intrusion, but I need to borrow Mr. Fisk for a moment.”

“Can’t it wait?”

“Yes, _Wesley_ ,” said Fisk, glaring. “Can’t it wait?”

“It’ll only take a second. It’s important, I’m afraid. ”

Reluctantly, Vanessa and Fisk separated.

“I’ll wait by the bar,” said Vanessa, giving Fisk one last smile before walking off.

Fisk returned the smile for exactly 3 seconds. “Wesley, this had better be important,” he said, as they weaved through the dancers.

“We’ve got a situation, sir. There’s-”

“But that’s what you’re for, Wesley. You’re supposed to deal with situations. It’s your job. Especially tonight.”

“Of course. But I know you want to be updated, and since you refuse to stay on a comm line-”

“Because I’m on a . . .” Fisk struggled with the word. “I’m on a date, Wesley. It wouldn’t be right.”

“It’s your decision, sir. However, I have reason to believe that there’s an intruder-”

“Tell me, Wesley. In your opinion, which I trust completely, are we, right now, in danger?”

“Well . . . not immediately. As I was saying, I believe there’s an intruder upstairs, but I have not yet established a connection between them and our, our activities. In addition, the security in this ballroom is especially strong. So, no. I believe you and the guests are safe.”

“Wonderful. If that changes, come find me. Otherwise, I trust you to handle it yourself.”

“I, of course. Sir.”

Fisk nodded distractedly and wandered off in the direction of the bar.  

_Handle it._

Wesley could do that.

He took out his phone and started walking towards the security terminal he'd seen earlier. He was running low on muscle, so he’d have to borrow some.

“Hi, Alexei? This is Wesley. I need a favor.”


	7. Chapter 7

Matt told him everything.

He started with the pressing stuff-Fisk, the explosions, being framed. He talked about Karen, Foggy, college, and then he drank some of Tony’s brandy and talked about the accident, and his dad. It was word vomit, or even worse, _secret_ vomit, and as someone who guards their secrets with their life, Matt was alarmed by his own honesty.

Maybe it was the weight of all his secrets, building up over the past year and finally spilling out into the open. Maybe he felt like telling the truth was the only way he’d get out of here. Maybe it was the vodka. But for whatever reason, Matt was suddenly very desperate that Iron Man understood _everything_.

Tony, for his part, was silent. He sat on the bed, legs crossed, leaning against the headboard and staring up at the ceiling, as if he were the one in therapy. His phone went off twice but he ignored it.

Matt finished awkwardly, trailing off into silence only when there he could think of nothing else to tell. He was glad that he didn’t have to avoid Tony’s eyes.

After a minute, Tony got up and refilled both of their glasses with the last of the brandy.

“And I thought my story was dramatic.”

Matt felt tired. He hadn’t been sure what his purpose for coming here was, but he knew now that he’d completed it. The gauze on his chest kept sliding downwards, there was something dislocated in his left arm, and blood was leaking into his socks. He wanted to go home.

“So, you gonna turn me in?” Matt asked, finally.

“Nah.”

“Oh, good.”

“I mean, I was going to,” Tony clarified. Matt felt his heart drop. “But I changed my mind.”

Well, that was good at least, although he was still trapped. Tony had isolated the top floor temporarily, but even Iron Man couldn’t hide him up here forever. They knew he was here. It was only a matter of time.

“Besides, I found you half-dead. Where’s the glory in that? _‘Iron Man Heroically Defeats Previously Injured Man.’_ Not exactly one for the scrapbook.”

There were running footsteps from the hall, and then door opened and the bellhop rushed inside, heart hammering.

“Someone’s trying to get in from the stairwell door.” He either didn’t notice or was actively trying to ignore the blood splattered around the room and covering Matt, which was probably good for his own sanity.

“You locked it, didn’t you?”

“Yeah, but they’re knocking. They’re uh-” He peeked around the corner, looking worried that someone had already kicked down the door. “-still knocking. They’re knocking really a lot.”

“Leave it. Maybe they’ll get bored and go away.”

“What if they go to management and get a key?”

“We’ll cross that bridge when it hits us in the face.”

“What if they try to kill us, and have, uh, guns and things?”

“I don’t mean to alarm you, but we have guns and things.”

“Oh.” The bellhop frowned, as if the fact that they could shoot back didn’t make the fact that they could get shot at any better. “I’d-I just cleaned up the last people's’ blood, though.”

Tony shrugged. “C'est la vie.”

The knocking had turned into loud banging, now, which was audible even from inside the room, even to Tony. It sounded like there was only one person, but they also sounded especially persistent.

Tony looked at Matt. “What do you say? You up for some more fighting?”

Matt frowned in his direction, in a way that he hoped conveyed exactly how not up he was for more fighting.

Just then, Tony’s phone vibrated.

“Hello?”

He listened for a moment, and then let out an exaggerated sigh and pushed himself off of the bed.

“Actually, don’t worry about it. Give me a sec. Taco Bell, come on.”

Matt wondered if Tony had only been listening to him in order to buy time for the cops to arrive. He wasn’t too worried, though, since the person on the phone had said, _“Let me in. These heels are killing me.”_

Tony reentered the room, followed by the bellhop and a woman carrying a pair of pumps .

“-worried about you, and the stockholders meeting was postponed so I thought- _Jesus._ ” She stopped short in the doorway. Matt tried to look slightly less pathetic, which is hard when you’re sitting in a pool of your own blood.

“Hi,” he said, smiling.

She ignored him. “Did you do that?” she asked, addressing Tony.

“No, those were some other guys and, uh, a window. I’ll explain in a minute. But back to-and it’s not that I’m not glad to see you because I am, but did you really fly to New York just to check up on me?”

Yes.”

“And they just let you in?”

“I’m CEO of Stark Industries. This is a tech conference. So, yes.”

“You could have called.”

“You could have answered the phone.”

“Point taken. Pepper, meet Matt. He’s a blind lawyer who moonlights as a masked vigilante. Matt, this is Pepper. She’s on our side.”

 _Our side._ Matt hoped his relief wasn’t too obvious.

“Hello Matt,” said Pepper. “Tony, you _will_ fill me in later.”

“It’s not my fault you missed storytime.”

“My fault-

“Our side of what, exactly?” Matt interrupted.

They paused.

“I think,” said Tony, slowly. “We’re gonna break you out of here.”

\---

Despite its name, the Fort Prestige Hotel was not equipped to deal with large-scale security threats. The security room was small, with more space devoted to monitors than people, and Wesley found himself pressed into a corner.

“-jumped through a skylight! And we weren’t sure what to do, like do we jump in after him? We didn’t, though.”

“I see,” said the Head of Security, who looked like she regretting coming into work today.

Wesley, who already had a pretty good idea of who their intruder was, agreed with her. “This man, he was wearing a mask?”

“No.”

Wesley walked forward suddenly and put his hands on the guard’s shoulder, who looked very uncomfortable. “Then it’s very important you remember; what did he look like? Did you see his face?”

“Um,” the guard stared at the ceiling. “Average height. Dressed in black. Didn’t see his face.”

Of course he wouldn’t let his face be seen. Disappointed, Wesley stepped back and turned to the Head of Security.

“A small security team, belonging to Mr. Fisk, was taken out by this man in the hotel hallway.” Wesley did not mention that the team had been searching for Tony Stark. “This man is a common threat. We should work together to apprehend him before he hurts anyone else.”

“Work together? Didn’t you say your team was taken out?”

Wesley glanced down at the text on his phone. “Yes. But we have backup.”

_Be there in 5. Bringing the big guns._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my god, it's been so long since I updated this. Sorry! I've been working on original stuff a lot lately. I reread goddamnhella's Marvel fics this week, though, and got the sudden urge to write more Tony Stark.
> 
> #TeamBellhop
> 
>  
> 
> If you leave comments, I love you.

**Author's Note:**

> decotext.tumblr.com


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